


plus ça change

by 75hearts



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Galadriel Being Wise, M/M, i mean they all go to mandos and get reembodied so does that REALLY count, ok well i guess elros does actually die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 15:19:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15222020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/75hearts/pseuds/75hearts
Summary: Elrond has had many homes and many families, in the Ages of Middle-Earth. He has lost them all.Or, a character study, from toddler in Sirion to Lord of Rivendell.





	plus ça change

Elrond was born in Sirion.

He never thought to ask why; why he was not born in Menegroth as his mother had been, or Gondolin as his father had been. He simply accepted it as fact.

Elros did. Elros was eternally curious, always needing to know _why_. Elrond was willing to stay at home and read and study his Quenya; Elros was the one that tried to map the forests to their North, or to count the number of fish in the ocean.

Eärendil looked helplessly at Elwing. It was the look that adults always give, when they don’t want to explain something or say something in front of the children. Elwing just looked sad. “We both had to leave,” she said, “but it’s okay, because we’re here now.”

“But _why_?”

“Well, we chose this place because it would be nice and safe for you two, and we loved you a lot and wanted to make sure you would be safe. Our old homes were very, very beautiful, you understand, and we loved them, but they were not safe enough for the two most important children in the whole wide world. So we came here.”

Elros narrowed his eyes, clearly suspecting that there was more to the story, but Elwing scooped him up in her arms and kissed him until he laughed and forgot what he was asking about.

Elrond did not forget. Yet he did not ask.

 

-

 

Elrond did not have to wait long to learn the answer. Here it was: blood everywhere. His mother surrounded. His mother, drowning. He stood in horror as he watched.

Elros did not stand; Elros grabbed his hand, and together they _ran_.

They did not run far. Elros brought them to a cave behind a waterfall, and they huddled there, as hidden as they could be; but they were not hidden enough. When the silhouette stepped into the mouth of the cave, they knew it was too late.

Elrond held tight to his twin. His crying was masked by the loud sounds of river upon rock.

The silhouette stooped down. He was an elven-man, and quite tall, with long red hair and many scars. “We will not harm you,” he said.

“ _Liar_ ,” Elros spat, but he was shivering in fear.

The strange man laughed, then, sadly. “I suppose you are right,” he said. “Well, perhaps you will hear the truth in this, at least, though it is much weaker a claim: we shall not harm you more than we already have, unless it be by accident or by unavoidable hand of fate, or if you stand in opposition to the oath of Fëanor with the full understanding of what that means.”

Elros did not know what to say to that, but clung closer to Elrond.

Eventually, the man wrapped them both in a blanket, and carried them away. Elros did his best to struggle, though it was clear immediately all efforts would be in vain.

 

-

 

Maglor, they learned, was to raise them.

They were not happy at this news at first--indeed, they would never truly be happy, with Eärendil and Elwing taken from them--and for a time they fought him in his household; but eventually they grew to accept their new home.

Maglor taught Elrond Quenya and told stories of Valinor in the soft tones of someone who has not spoken his native language for hundreds of years and still half-expects to be cast out for it. He taught Elros the harp and the magic songs to sing for healing or strength. He did not speak of the attack on Sirion.

Maedhros taught them both swordfighting (“for you may need it yet,” he said.)

It was only when Gil-Estel rose for the first time, proving their parents safe, that Elros asked the question of Maglor that he had wanted to since the day of the Third Kinslaying: “Why?”

Maglor gave a very hollow laugh. “Why did I kill them? Or: Why did I, then, save your lives and raise you as my own?”

“Both,” Elrond said, instantly, before Elros could even draw breath. It startled both Elros and Maglor, for Elrond rarely interrupted his brother, but Elrond’s face was unchanged, his gaze steady on Maglor.

“I killed them,” Maglor said slowly, “Because I was oath-bound to; but I am sure you already knew that.” He sighed. “For whatever it’s worth, I did not want to. Yet the older I get, the more I think that _I did not want to_ is worth very little, as excuses go, and perhaps it is worth nothing at all. I did it, and that is what matters. I did not kill Elwing, but it was not for a lack of trying. I killed many of the people you grew up with, friends and mentors and servants. In Menegroth, I killed your mother’s parents, and her siblings. --I did not kill all of them directly. My brothers would chafe, if they were here, at the lack of credit I am giving them for their deeds. But I helped, and in no case did I stop them. Indeed, even Maedhros has more credit for that than I; when Celegorm’s armies drove your uncles into the wilds, he alone went to search for them, and before then, when my father burnt the ships at Alqualondë--” He took a breath. “I am sorry. That is another story altogether.” Maglor sat there, for a time, looking up at Gil-Estel, at Vingilótë, at the father he could only ever be a pale mockery of and the silmaril he had done such deeds to get at. Elrond almost believed he had forgotten the second half of the question when Maglor began again. “I saved you because--even after all I have done, I am not heartless, or pityless, though many believe me so, and I would not find fault in you for deciding to believe me thus despite my protests. I could have ordered you killed; indeed, you would not be the first children dead of my father’s oath! But there had been too much death already, and all of it needless; I wanted not the stack of corpses to grow higher. I wished then to, in some small way, help mend the hurt I have caused to the world. It is not enough, of course. But perhaps it will be something, still, to you. If I can give you nothing else: you were at the mercy of a son of Fëanor, and you were spared, a thing that few can claim with any truth. You are alive still, which is no small victory in these times.” He finally broke his gaze away from the star, and looked at each twin in turn. “I cannot in truth repent, when I am bound to do the same tomorrow should anyone stand between me and a silmaril; but I _am_ sorry. I know it is not enough. It will never be. But that is why.”

Elrond wondered, then, if it was betraying his parents to love Maglor also; for he knew in his heart that he did.

 

-

After the war was won, Maglor and Maedhros disappeared with not even a farewell. All of their old homes were flooded, now, except for Himring, which was no longer a mountain, but a small isle in the sea.

The Valar came to Elros and him then, and asked a question.

 

-

 

“Why?” This time, it was Elrond asking. His voice was fierce, but the shake in it was not from anger.

“Why must you ask that? Perhaps you have forgiven them, brother, and I do not judge you for that. But I cannot. I cannot forgive them. Not even Maglor. And so I renounce it all.”

“Our parents—”

“Were elven too, but only half.”

“They were offered the same choice.”

“Yes, they were; and they made it. So have I.”

“Stop pretending you are uncomprehending. You know full well what I mean. They were offered the choice; and they chose to be elves.”

“And I do not. I do not wish to live forever, plucking harps and swearing oaths, if this is the price. Do not look at me in that way! I do not wish to die today, and I do not hunger for death; but worse than death in my eyes is to fade, to wander Arda until I am naught but a shadow of a memory. I would die a hundred times, before I would make that choice.”

All semblance of anger had departed from Elrond’s voice. He sounded only tired. “You may not die today, but it will not be long, not as the Eldar reckon it.”

“That is true enough. Yet that is my path.” Elros was not angry either; he spoke it simply, a statement not of intent but of fact.

“I wish it were not.”

“I know. But it is so all the same.”

“And you shall leave over the sea, just as they did.”

“Yes. But not as far.”

“No; but Elenna and Valinor both are just as far to me, for I cannot follow. I must stay here, in Middle-Earth.”

“And that is your choice, just as this is mine.”

“I suppose it is.”

 

-

 

In Forlindon, he devoted himself to healing. He was talented at it, and a fast learner; and he moved quickly from student to teacher. He healed those which came to him, to the best of his abilities. He listened intently for news from over the sea, from the new continent of Númenor. Elros had become the King, there, and he was the one who had given it its name. They said he was a good King. They said he took a name in Quenya.

Elrond met the King of the Noldor in Lindóne, a great elf named Gil-Galad, and a great friendship grew between them. They spent much of their time together, and were rarely seen separate.

Many of the Sindar left, and dwelt in Harlindon under the rule of Celeborn; others left further, with the Green-Elves that still survived, to the woods of Lothlórien or Eryn Galen, for the Noldor had done great injustices to their people. Elrond could have left also; he was a Noldo himself, but he was certainly not untouched by the cruelties of the Noldor. He did not. He knew how to love the worst of the Noldor, who had harmed him much more directly than Gil-Galad had.

Celebrimbor left also, after a time, and brought his people with him, for mithril had been discovered in the mines of Moria. He was a great smith, after his father and grandfather before him, though he would have been unhappy at the comparison. They founded a city near the Hadhodrond, and traded freely with them, and built many things of great beauty; and they named their kingdom Eregion.

Still Elrond remained in Lindóne, and remained the companion of Gil-Galad; for he had lost two homes already, and did not care to lose this one before he must.

 

-

 

It was before the founding of Eregion that the news came over the sea: Tar-Minyatur is dead.

Elrond knew he should be grateful that the Valar were as kind as they were; his brother had lived much longer than most mortal men lived.

He was not grateful. He was grieved.

“Come home with me,” Gil-Galad said, gently. “You do not seem alright.”

“How can I be? My brother is dead,” Elrond said, but followed anyway.

 

-

 

“War is building again,” Gil-Galad said, softly, early one morning. They were still in bed, and the light of the dawn was pale filtering through the window. “We both know it.”

“Must we speak of such things?”

“Celebrimbor is sending away his greatest creations. Fair-looking strangers come to our gates and lie. Strange tidings come from Númenor. The Noldor are never restful; but they are more disquiet now than they have been in a long time. We are in danger, Elrond. Of course we must.”

Elrond nodded. “Very well. My men will be ready, whenever it comes.”

 

-

 

The messenger came to the gates out of breath. “Eriador is under attack,” he said. “The navy of Tar-Minastir that Gil-Galad sent for has been delayed. Please--we need your help--”

It did not take long for Elrond to react; he had been waiting for this day for years. He rode that day for Eregion. He prayed to Manwë for Gil-Galad’s safety, and the safety of Lindóne, but he knew he must go where he was needed most.

The might of Sauron’s force went to Eriador, just as Elrond did; but it was not only Eregion that was attacked. Sauron’s forces were mighty, and swarmed the entire area, from Moria to Lindóne, ravaging everything in their path. Thousands of elves fought back; but they were badly outnumbered. It seemed that for every elf in battle there were ten orcs, and Elrond found himself again and again calling his men to retreat and minimize their losses.

 _Is this what it was like for my father in Gondolin, or my mother in Doriath?_ Elrond wondered despairingly as he fought. Still he kept his voice light. Morale was failing already, and it was his job to keep it up. He was grateful for his knowledge of healing, for it was sorely needed on the battlefield.

Finally, he gave up on winning, and tried only to survive. He took the survivors scattered in Eregion alongside his men, and left. He established camp in a hidden valley, and named it: _Imladris_ , deeply cut ravine. He hoped it would be deep enough, that he would not be forced out of another home by the changing Ages. For the next two years, Eregion around them was laid waste, and Eriador beyond that, and Moria; Lindóne held out, but only just.

He tended the wounded and sick; he fed and housed the wanderers and refugees. He hoped; he could do nothing more.

They were found and besieged eventually. Elrond held out as long as he could, and waited, and hoped.

 

-

 

Tidings came at last from Gil-Galad: reinforcements had arrived from Númenor. Sauron was being driven back, and they are leading him into a trap in the southeast.

Again Elrond rode to war. This time, it was to victory.

After Sauron was driven out, Gil-Galad and Elrond met in council; and Gil-Galad invited Elrond to explore the lands beyond Anduin with him, and extend their power.

Elrond considered the offer.

Yet he knew his people needed him still. He sighed. “My heart is with you always, my King, and will be until the end of days, and you know this; but I cannot accept.”

“Very well; but in that case, accept my gift, which perhaps thou will find need of in the days to come.” Gil-Galad pressed Vilya into Elrond’s hand.

“You are gracious, my King.” He bowed slightly, and took the ring.

“I declare you, Elrond Peredhel, my Vice-Regent in all things; and Imladris under your care shall be a great Elven stronghold in the days to come.”

Their eyes were sad as they parted. Elrond returned to Imladris.

 

-

 

News came from the West to Imladris slowly, on the whole, but Númenor’s fall caused a ripple even there.

The Elendil began arriving in even before the Fall, speaking rumor of a Númenor that Elros would not have loved. Elrond took them in, showed them kindness. He was friends still with the Númenoreans, though perhaps the King’s Men would shudder under his friendship. But the greatest numbers of men arrived just after the fall; and Elrond sheltered them as well as he could, until they were capable of leaving and creating their own kingdoms, which they did: Arnor and Gondor, the Realms in Exile. Elrond saw Elros in them, still, though their relation was distant. He grieved to see them go; yet he knew he could not ask them to stay.

A hundred years passed of relative peace, and the Realms flourished as best they could, though they were not comparable to Númenor any more than Imladris was comparable to Gondolin or Menegroth, before Sauron attacked again.

Isildur and Anarion in the South were taken by surprise, for they believed Sauron dead in the drowning of Númenor; and Sauron was able to take Minas Ithil, and burn it. Isildur alone escaped, with his wife and children and a sapling of the White Tree, and went North to beg Elendil and Gil-Galad for aid. They agreed, and began to gather their forces, though it took many years to build an army ready to attack Mordor. Even Imladris, refugee camp and house of healing, prepared to send men on the offensive. Elrond practiced again his fighting, and readied his men for the call.

The messenger rode in on a cloudless night beneath the stars. “Master Elrond,” he said, and bowed. “The Alliance is coming. Gil-Galad leads the combined forces of Elves and Men; Círdan rides with him, and Elendil. They wish for leave to stay here, and rest, and plan for the great war to follow.

Elrond nodded wordlessly. “They have my leave,” he said, though it was scarcely even a formality. He watched as the riders approached.

They stayed in Imladris for three years, forging weapons and sending messengers; the people of Moria and Lothlórien pledged to join them and fight under Gil-Galad, though Moria especially was scarcely less damaged than Ost-in-Edhil; and Taur-nu-Fuin agreed to join the fight as well, though proudly they refused to submit to Gil-Galad’s commands. Still, they needed all the help they could get, and welcomed all who were willing to fight against Sauron alongside them; and they were weary of their travels, and glad during that time of the rest that Imladris provided to them.

But rest cannot endure forever, especially not against an enemy who does not rest. Sauron burnt the great gardens of the Entwives, and the Entwives disappeared; Gil-Galad hastened somewhat, then, though still taking great care in his every action. As soon as the plans had been decided and the soldiers supplied, they set off once again. Elrond rode as the herald of Gil-Galad, his oldest friend; and on the plain at Dagorlad they met their enemy in battle at last. For months they fought, and many great elves were felled by the orcs; but it was won, and Elrond was the first to step into Mordor and begin the siege.

 

-

 

Elrond stood, in the wreckage and corpses, and asked himself why he had survived so long. It was luck, he decided, eventually.

Maedhros had been a more skilled swordsman than he by far, and Elros could have beat him easily in a contest of strength; and both had died, so long ago. Had it really been three thousand years?

Gil-Galad was certainly better with a sword than Elrond. Yet Elrond had survived the great battle on the slopes of Orodruin, while Gil-Galad beside him was slain.

All three of them, great kings, and skilled fighters and commanders both. All three of them, certainly more useful, more talented, more deserving than Elrond. And yet all three of them died in their turn, and Elrond remained.

When Isildur refused the destruction of the One Ring, Elrond wished to scream at him: _What should I tell my friends, who have now died for nothing but your pride and greed?_ But he did not. He could not compel Imladris, and he knew he was not rational or kind in his grief. It was Isildur’s right to claim the ring as weregild; and thus it was that Elrond could only watch, powerless, as Isildur claimed it for himself. He comforted himself with the knowledge only that Sauron was, if not fully destroyed, at least defeated for a time; that the battle was at least not wholly in vain.

But it was not enough, and he knew it even then. He had hoped going into the battle for a true change, and not a simple repeat of the cycle: Sauron’s defeat, Sauron’s reemergence. But he knew also that he was a fool to hope.

Elrond looked out at the land beyond Mordor, and the sun dawned on the horizon, heralding the Third Age of Arda.

 

-

 

Isildur died not long after, shot by orcs, leaving a son and heir behind at Imladris: Valandil.

It was the first of the Heirs of Isildur that Elrond would raise, but not the last; and each were raised as his own. He spoke mostly to them in Sindarin, his own mother-tongue, but taught them Quenya and Westron both, and at his knee they learned history and healing and harp-playing. He taught swordfighting also, for though he hoped that they would never need use of his lessons he knew that they may.

Elrond inherited one thing other than a son, from Isildur: the broken pieces of a sword. He recognized it immediately: Narsil, the sword of the kings of Númenor. His brother’s sword.

 

-

 

He met Celebrían again then, who he had first met centuries before; but it was peacetime now, when then it had been a time of war, and he saw her in a new light. Her silver hair was long, and her face fair; and her voice was old but strong. It was perhaps the last thing that drew Elrond in, for so many who had been through the wars in Middle-Earth had come out of them broken or fading, and many of the strong had died or grown somber in grief. Celebrían held herself proudly, body unmarred, and spoke with a voice that remembered laughter well; but it was clear in her eyes that she had seen much. At all times she wore a green stone, bright and clear, upon her breast.

They stayed together for some time, and married then.

“Thou art beautiful as the light from the stars, my lady; your hair puts the moon in the sky to shame, and still you smile. I count myself lucky, every day, that you have chosen me,” Elrond said one night, as he held her hand. “I could continue; but I sense that there is something thou wishes to tell me, and surely I have said enough that thou would trust in my love.”

She laughed, delightedly, then, and spoke: “It is not tidings of ill that I wish to speak, nor nothing that would require such flattery. It is good news: I am with child.”

Elrond had opened his mouth halfway through her speech, no doubt to assure her it was truth and not flattery, but then closed it again in shock for a time before speaking. “A child!”

“Yes, Elrond! A child. Indeed--I think perhaps it will be two children.”

“We will be the luckiest parents in the world,” he said, “if they have but the tiniest fraction of your heart. I love them already--our children, our _twins--_ I will love them until the end of the time, until the day of the Dagor Dagorath, until the moon sets for the last time and the stars go dark, and after… Our child! We shall have a child!” He spun around with her, then, in the gardens, and sang out in joy, and kissed her.

 

-

 

Elladan and Elrohir were identical twins, just as Elrond had been with his brother before Elros had begun to show his age. They were close with the Dúnedain, for they grew up with Eldacar and Arantar--for Elrond had not ended his habit of fostering and tutoring Isildur’s heirs--and played with them. They were the image of their father, and at times Elrond had to blink hard or turn away, or else see a memory of himself and his brother instead of seeing his sons.

After Elladan and Elrohir, they had a daughter. Arwen had her father’s coloring; but like her mother, she was as beautiful as the starlight and as strong as steel. Galadriel said that she looked much like Lúthien of old, Elwing’s grandmother; and neither Elrond nor Celebrían were in a place to dispute her. They named her Arwen in Sindarin, meaning noble maiden; and Undómiel in Quenya, meaning evening-star, daughter of twilight, after the star of Eärendil that still glowed silmaril-bright in the sky, and the knowledge that she was coming of age late in the world.

 

-

 

“The world is changing, Elrond, even if you do not want it to,” Mithrandir said. “Outside your borders, the Witch-King gains strength, and the Necromancer. Arnor is declining and divided. You cannot stay forever in your haven, no matter how much you may want to.”

“And why not?”

“The council of an old man is not enough for you? Very well; if nothing else, know that your enemies have no such aversion to moving from their home. If you continue to stay hidden here, perhaps they will come to meet you.”

“You and I both know you are not simply an old man. But I still know not what to do. I have not the men I once did; I can keep them at bay if my home is under siege, but I have not the army that once destroyed Sauron.”

“Perhaps not. Many things are not as they once were. But I do imagine you will manage it anyway.” His eyes were glimmering as he took a long puff from his pipe.

At last, Elrond grew impatient. “You are leading me to a course of action, but I do not see which one you point at. Be clear with me: what do you ask me to do?”

“You said it yourself: I am not simply an old man.”

“You. You will invade Dol Guldur?”

“If you ask it of me,” Mithrandir said, and blew smoke from his mouth.

 

-

 

“Bring her to me. Bring her to me!” Elrond tore through his healing supplies, looking desperately for something that would help.

Elrohir rushed in. “We saved her, but--her wound--”

“ _Bring her to me!_ ”

They brought Celebrían in as fast as they could without disturbing her. Her eyelids fluttered. “Elrond--love--”

“Shh, shh, do not worry. Sleep. I am here. I love you.” He did not have time, but he would have planted a kiss on her forehead, if he could have. Instead, he examined her wound. “It is poison,” he murmured, and then, louder: “Bring me athelas!” In the meantime, he poured clean water on her wound, and sung quietly a healing song that Maglor had taught him.

 

-

 

Elrond did not leave her side until she was fully healed in body. But no matter what he did, she was not healed in spirit. She wandered the woods surrounding Imladris, eyes haunted, alternately singing and screaming; she could not sleep for nightmares. “They tortured me,” she whispered, eyes wild, clutching him. “They--they--they had me--for too long--”

“I am so sorry,” Elrond said, and wished that he could help.

“I think perhaps I shall go to Valinor,” she whispered. “They have healers there, do they not, for mind as well as body? Perhaps they have someone who can help me. If nothing else, they could--I could--”

“It is okay, love,” Elrond said, but his eyes were sad. “If this is beyond my power to cure, we will send ships; and you will go to Valinor.”

 

-

 

Arathorn was out with Elladan and Elrohir when he was shot; and suddenly there was a child in the house, again. The boy was not his, not Celebrían’s. Still Elrond taught him and loved him as his own. His name was Aragorn, but Elrond named him _Estel_. Hope. For hope was what he represented; and hope was sorely needed, in those days.

When he was twenty-one, he left; for thirty years, he fought alone, until at forty-nine he came to Lórien, where he met Arwen again, and pledged his love to her.

 

-

 

“Thou willst die if thou choose a life with him,” Elrond said.

“Then so be it,” she said.

Elrond sighed. It seemed as though he was always having this conversation, even as the world around him changed. “Thy mother--”

“Would wish me to do as I will.”

“Can I not convince you?”

“I have already made my choice. I have chosen a mortal life, and pledged myself to him for as long as I shall live. There is nothing you can do.”

Elrond grasped her, then, and held her close; tears fell down his face, though it was otherwise unchanged. “My daughter,” he whispered. “Arwen Undómiel. I wish I could save you, from your doom, though I know you want not to be saved.”

 

-

 

It was not long after that he met Bilbo’s nephew, and the other hobbits that accompanied him. They were cheery folk, and laughed easily; they loved food and drink dearly. They were very young, and were unafraid in a way that only the young can be. Elrond liked to watch them. He could see why Mithrandir was fond.

Frodo seemed the most somber of them, in his recovery from an injury; and at council it was revealed the reason why: Frodo held in his hand Sauron’s ring, the ring which Isildur had cut from him and then took as his own, the ring which Eriador had been destroyed and Celebrimbor tortured for. He allowed everyone to speak, Mithrandir and Glóin and Frodo in their turn; and then he spoke of the history, of Moria and Eregion, Gil-Galad and Elendil, Númenor and Gondor, until Boromir spoke to take up the story, and Aragorn revealed his heritage.

 

-

 

“If the ring is destroyed, we shall fade,” Elrond said, pacing.

“Yes. You cannot be having doubts?” Galadriel said. She was tall, and the light of Valinor shone in her eyes as she looked searchingly at him.

“I do not. Of course I do not. Yet nor do I look forward to fading, though I should see my mother and father again, and my wife, when I travel to the West; for long I have lived in Middle-Earth, and it is not with joy that I give up another home.”

“Yet that is our fate.”

“I know,” he said, sighing heavily. “I know.”

“Change does not have to be full of sorrow.”

Elrond dipped his head to her in respect, for she was older than he, and wiser. “Perhaps not. Yet at best it has always felt bittersweet; for new times to come, there is always the ending of the old. Sauron will have no power, in the world that is to come--but neither shall we. It is our fate; but it still feels as a sorrow, in my heart.”

“That is true enough,” she agreed. “Yet it will be good, to see the sea again. To see Valinor. You are giving up a home, but I am returning to mine; and I do think in truth that in time it will be yours as well, though you may have doubts yet. You have shown yourself capable of building a home well, wherever you find your family: and you shall have in Valinor no shortage of family. For you have lost many you have loved in the Ages of the world, and as long as you are here, playing out the story of Middle-Earth, you will not be able to reach them; but in the Undying Lands you may find some of them again still.”

 

-

 

She spoke true on one thing, at least: it was good to see the sea again.

As he stood on the beach to welcome Bilbo and Frodo, he paused for a moment and strained his ears before stepping onto the ship; for on the wind, he heard a whisper of Maglor’s voice singing a lullaby. There Elrond heard for the first time in many thousands of years the gentle syllables of Quenya over the music of the harp; and as he stepped onto the swan-ship that had been sent for them and set sail for the shores of Aman, listening as Maglor’s voice grew distant and disappeared again, he knew that Galadriel had spoken true.


End file.
